Sweeter Than Skin
by Vivi Marius
Summary: "Will you let me eat dessert?" Sherlock asked, resting his forehead against John's, "Off of you? I want to taste the sweet against the salt of your skin."


John left Tesco, juggling the shopping bags when they somehow got tangled with the door. He started the walk home as he watched other people on the street. After so long with Sherlock, he had picked up the annoying habit of looking at everything. He was nowhere near his partner's level, of course, but it was something to be proud of when he could guess which people were left or right handed based off of observations.

He huffed a bit as he opened the front door, the groceries bumping against the door again. John wasn't upset about doing the shopping, since the one time Sherlock had, the tall man had bought fourteen different kinds of beans and no milk. So John picked up what they needed on his way home from surgery, which was alright by him. Work had been tense for a while after John and Sarah had broken it off; which had only gotten worse when John serial dated but still couldn't get his mind off of Sherlock.

Sherlock had suspected John's attraction right off, but he didn't realize his own until the pool. When John walked out, saying the lines Moriarty had fed him, Sherlock had been hurt. It was almost a relief to see the bomb strapped on John's chest, because that meant it wasn't a betrayal. John had tried to save him, but Moriarity was too smart for that. And when Moriarty had left, the first thing that went through Sherlock's mind was _make John safe_. So he ran over, stripped the bomb off and slung it across the floor, only then realizing that perhaps he should have looked for Moriarity or the sniper. But John, from that moment and beyond, came first over everything else. When Sherlock processed what had happened at the pool later, he had questioned his actions. _Why did I let Moriarty get away? John is a soldier, he can take care of himself. Why did I feel the need to help him?_ Sherlock had wrestled with the feelings, stripping everything else away until he realized that perhaps he himself had a growing attraction for this man.

Sherlock still had a hard time expressing himself vocally, but he had found that body language was an excellent medium in which both men happened to be fluent. Light brushes of fingertips as John passed Sherlock tea, a hand that lingered too long when Sherlock helped John stand up, and sitting close so that their legs touched as they watched TV became natural and expected in 221B. Then came a heat wave in June that had all of London stifling. It seemed like the entire city slowed down as no one was in a hurry to move, let alone move quickly. To Sherlock's displeasure, even the criminals took a holiday during the sweaty, sticky heat. Sherlock's brain had slowed down, so after an intense mental deleting session, he needed a reboot. Sherlock had gotten out of bed, clad only in some navy pajama pants, pulled out his violin and began to play. His clean, sonorous melody cut through the sluggish two-in-the-morning air and his heat-addled mind.

John, too hot to fall asleep, had heard the song and padded quietly downstairs to watch. A different kind of heat had spread through the doctor's body as he saw Sherlock's well-defined back, the pale, almost luminescent skin disappearing into deep blue. His breath increased as he saw the curve of Sherlock's neck, the smooth cheek holding the violin in place as the detective caressed it so tenderly. It was a different side of Sherlock, a different kind of non-verbal poetry that made John want to reach out and lightly trail his fingers down Sherlock's neck and chest in a soft sweep. John had started forwards, but stopped when he realized what he was doing. The doctor had turned away and gone upstairs, unwilling to succumb to the heat just yet.

John had become distant and flustered around Sherlock after that night. It didn't particularly matter when they were on a case, because both men were too focused to think of anything else. But it was glaringly obvious when they were in 221B Baker Street, isolated and around each other all the time. John had danced around Sherlock for a good two weeks in between cases before Sherlock couldn't stand it anymore.

When John had come downstairs that morning, he had found Sherlock focused on the skull and plucking at his violin. Sherlock was thinking, but not about a case. About a certain army doctor who happened to live with him. Thinking about how silky his hair probably would be. About how strong and sturdy his body was under those polo shirts and jumpers. About how easy it would feel to have the doctor's arms wrapped around him. Sherlock's eyes darted over to John, who was sitting in his chair, reading the morning paper.

John shifted under Sherlock's gaze and took a deep breath. He hoisted himself out of his chair and went to make them tea. Sherlock stood up and followed him to the kitchen rather quietly. When the water boiled, John turned around to get cups and practically ran into Sherlock. He started to stammer, tried to step around his flatmate, but Sherlock reached out and grabbed John's wrists. John stopped, swallowing—_increased heart rate blown pupils lips parted just slightly blushing oh blushing_—and Sherlock had watched him for a second before nervously starting out, "John, why are you avoiding…I—well, I-" and petering off into nothing. Perhaps he could just show John?

Phase one: Sherlock tilted his head, leaned in slightly, watching John carefully. No negative reactions thus far, so continue to phase two. Sherlock leaned in the rest of the way, closing his eyes and tentatively brushing his lips against John's. John had reacted favorably to the contact, adding a slight pressure to their lips and relaxing into it. They kissed like that, idly, for another few minutes before the kettle whistled at them. They broke apart, and Sherlock reached around John to turn the kettle off.

"Not an experiment?" John had asked, his eyes searching.

Sherlock shook his head, then considered. "An experiment on myself; to see if a self-proclaimed high-functioning sociopath could react favorably to a kiss," he mused.

"But you're not regretting it."

"Not in the slightest," Sherlock responded, his stare direct and earnest.

John's surprisingly lush lips spread into a smile. "I thought you were married to your work?"

Sherlock stared blankly back, remembering that conversation in the restaurant. A small, acquiescing smile graced his own lips. "We work together," he responded easily. John had nodded slightly before he stepped forward, catching Sherlock's mouth with his.

Months had passed since that day, and things had gotten heated quite quickly. Both men were ready to become more intimate, but they still bickered every day. John wanted to hold hands; Sherlock didn't. Sherlock wanted to tell the Yard (or at least Lestrade) but John didn't. Mycroft tried to interfere and Sherlock headed him off. Harry got offended because her brother hadn't told her about his new-found sexuality and John got upset. Sherlock often left severed fingers in the butter but got indignant when John moved the sugar. John always made the meals for their stay-in dates and never got the 'right' kind of beans.

But for the most part, they were happy. They got to explore each other, which was stimulating to them both. Sherlock, of course, knew everything about John, but had almost zero practical experience with physical relationships. John, on the other hand, was able to find all of Sherlock's favorite spots easily, but wanted to know more about the man underneath the scarf. And then it was about becoming more attuned and open with each other. John discovered, quite by accident, that Sherlock loved having his head petted and scratched and Sherlock deduced that John preferred back massages from his violist's hands. Sherlock liked to rest his head in John's lap as he thought, and John liked to cuddle when they shared a bed.

They had just passed their two month mark when the Yard started to find out about them. It had been a beautiful late day in August, and John had insisted on going on a walk. Sherlock was vehemently against this, but he was a man who never did anything without having a clear purpose to it. A walk to collect samples of the _tulipa gesneriana_ within a five block radius was acceptable; a walk to _"enjoy the day"_ was not. John, however, had looked so excited that Sherlock went along with him. They were about halfway down the path John chose when Sherlock started to sulk. He stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and started to pontificate on how walks were superfluous to the quality of life for the average Londoner; how walks were not going to get you any healthier so _what was the point of walking_; how it was too hot to walk anyway and why did he have to leave his scarf and coat behind. John had stopped to listen to Sherlock's tirade, a smile playing out across his lips. When he judged that Sherlock was done complaining for the moment, John had pulled Sherlock in close and kissed him tenderly. Neither of the men happened to notice that Lestrade was passing by at that exact moment.

The DI had seen the kiss, but then stopped. He turned back to look at the couple, wondering if he had gotten the people wrong—no, it was definitely Sherlock and John. The two men were now walking in the opposite direction, holding hands and smiling. Lestrade debated for a moment before catching up with the pair, tapping Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock stopped, but John had kept going until he felt a jerk on his arm. John turned, and then his eyebrows shot up to see the DI.

"Did…did I just see what I think I just saw?" Lestrade asked, looking from detective to doctor.

"What do you think you saw?" Sherlock retorted, lifting an eyebrow.

"I thought I saw you and John holding hands and kis-" Lestrade looked down, his words choking off as he saw that their hands—in fact, their fingers were intertwined.

"Oh yes," Sherlock answered dryly, "you saw correctly. I have to say, I rather like John's kisses; he holds a particular mastery over them." Lestrade looked back at the doctor, who was blushing furiously.

"Well, were you going to, uhm, tell us?"

"I don't see the need. We've been seeing each other romantically for a little over two months now and no one at the Yard has yet noticed. Of course, if it were anyone else, I would have known immediately. None of you are very observant, but the fact remains that John and I are capable of maintaining two very separate relationships: work and, shall we say, pleasure?" Sherlock asked, looking back at John.

"Sherlock," John mumbled, slightly embarrassed by the whole venture.

"Right, well," Lestrade had coughed and looked rather awkwardly down at his shoes, "I wish you two the best, and I'll see you when we have a case for you."

Sherlock had merely nodded, so John said, "Thanks, Greg," before the DI had gone back to work. As soon as he was out of earshot, John squeezed Sherlock's hand. "Thank you. I know you wanted to tell him outright, but I didn't—and then, for defending us, thank you."

This time it was Sherlock who leaned in for the kiss. "I know a better, and much less public, form of exercise than a walk. Shall we?" he suggested, leading them back to their flat after John had nodded.

That night the sex had been sweet and long, but it wasn't always that way. Sometimes it was hard, fast, desperate. They could slam each other against the wall and rip clothes off in a furious frenzy and just have at it. They could kiss and caress and feel the slow, tender build of desire as they took an amazing amount of time just to get each other undressed. They often switched who gave and who received, and they found a multitude of things to keep them occupied: Sherlock rather liked being restrained, and John definitely liked dominating him. There were a few memorable experiences where Sherlock had refused John use of his hands, or his mouth—using no restraints other than a promise to hold John back. They trusted each other to satisfy and to look out for the other. Of course, they still fought (Sherlock didn't understand why John insisted on getting out of the flat from time to time, and John hated how Sherlock sometimes stopped pay attention to their relationship when they were working a case), but they always managed to fix themselves after a fight. It was almost as if they were one body, sometimes fractured, but then they mended and became stronger and better. Quite frankly, there was no one else in the world that either of them would rather be with, and neither of them saw that changing. Ever.

Even though it had taken awhile to become partners, John and Sherlock were all too happy to be reaching their sixth month monaversary ("It cannot be called an _anniversary,_ John; 'anni' indicates annual and we have not become annual yet. We should call it our sixth _monaversary_ instead."). John was totally aware that Sherlock was only celebrating because it was important to him, but that was just another way of Sherlock showing he loved John. And really, their delight from being with each other was remarkable when considering that all they did in their spare time was chase criminals and solve crimes.

So, John came home that evening to Sherlock playing his violin at the window. Sherlock, having already seen John coming up to the flat, was playing a gentle tune as his doctor set the groceries on an unoccupied space of the table.

"That sounds nice," John remarked as he started to put the food away, carefully avoiding the various experiments littering the kitchen. The piece continued, though Sherlock turned to face him. To John, the music sounded a bit like a lullaby. Or maybe a love song he had heard once and forgotten a long time ago. "What is it? Shubert? Bach?" he tried to guess.

"No; it's Holmes," Sherlock replied, the bow sliding over the strings to hit one last, low note that reverberated around the flat. "There's no need to do that," he remarked dryly, the bow pointing to the milk John was about to put away.

"Why?" John asked, opening up the fridge. He was about to put the milk in its accustomed place when he noticed that there was already milk there. John turned to look at his partner—his genius, yet still ignorant partner—before remarking, "You went shopping?" Sherlock nodded somewhat sheepishly, resisting the urge to fiddle with the bow in his hand. John found another place for the now superfluous milk and cupped Sherlock's face in his chilled hands. "I love you," he said with a smile before leaning in for a kiss. It was not the first time he had said it, nor would it be the last. Both men were absolutely okay with that.

When they pulled away, Sherlock whispered the admission back. John stepped away to start dinner now that he was home. Sherlock turned to put the bow and violin away before coming and sitting at the kitchen table to watch John cook. John had started a pot of water boiling on the stove, and was now getting out a saucepan and grabbing ingredients from the bags he had brought home.

"The piece," Sherlock prompted John.

"Hm?"

"The piece I was playing when you came in. Did you like it?"

"Oh, yeah, I did. It sounded familiar…have I heard it before?" John asked, turning halfway to see Sherlock in his side vision.

Sherlock smiled again. "No, I only just started it. But it was for you, John. It's you," he said, almost as delighted as he would be with a good serial killer. It sounded familiar indeed; John had been hearing himself in musical form and had not registered it.

John's eyes lit up and crinkled as he smiled. "Really? You composed a piece for me?" Sherlock nodded in response, pleased by John's reaction. "You have been particularly amazing today, Sherlock, thank you," John enthused before turning back and adding ingredients to the saucepan.

Sherlock's one eyebrow shot up even though John could not see it. "Only today?" he drawled, absolutely teasing his partner.

John waved the spatula in response. "You of all people know what I mean, Sherlock Henry Holmes," not sounding the least bit upset. Sherlock smiled slightly; John could feel it even if he wasn't seeing it. "What did you do all day, besides go to Tesco and compose?" he asked, adding some salt to the pasta water that was still heating up.

"Begged you not to go to work," Sherlock answered dryly, folding his hands on top of the table.

"I know you just didn't sit around all day," John parried back.

"I solved a theft," Sherlock answered.

"If Lestrade called, you could have asked me to come."

"He didn't call," Sherlock shrugged.

John nodded before pausing. He added the stock to the saucepan, covered it, and turned to look at Sherlock. "So, how did you hear about it?" he asked, knowing he probably wouldn't like where this was going.

"John, what do you expect of me?"

"So you're saying that you got the case completely legally?" John inquired, his voice even (but, Sherlock noticed, the corner of his eyes were crinkling with delight).

"Of course not. Lestrade typed in his email password in front of me in his office last time we were there; he was practically begging me to look at it. It was an invitation," Sherlock explained.

"Not an open one," John countered, a smile starting to play on his lips. "So? What was stolen?"

"Pascal Hervé's _Ritual at Tara_," Sherlock answered. John didn't recognize the artist, but it hardly mattered. "I deduced that one of the curators took it from its display and hid it. Hardly imaginative, but the painting never even left the National Gallery."

"Ah, yes, how dare those thieves plot easy crimes for you to solve," John commented dryly, turning back around to the stove and adding the pasta to the now boiling pot.

"It's a personal insult to me, John. Continuing on, I saw the email about it come in to Lestrade's inbox, so I called him and told him who had taken it and where to look. He texted me a few hours ago to let me know I'd been right," Sherlock concluded his story. John took the saucepan off the heat, so Sherlock got up and got the bottle of wine out of the fridge that he had bought. He poured them both glasses and got out plates and cutlery for them both.

"Did Lestrade ask you how you knew about the theft?" John asked.

"He started to, but then decided that he'd rather not know," Sherlock answered, his eyes alight with mischief.

"Wise choice," John said with a smile. He checked the pasta (still not done) and went to grab some candles he had bought this afternoon. John set them up in between their plates and grabbed some matches to light them. Sherlock watched him curiously, a question in his eyes. "Well, it's our sixth monaversary, I want to have a romantic dinner in with my partner," John said defensively in answer. Sherlock smiled and brushed his hand down John's arm affectionately. John caught Sherlock's hand and raised it to his lips before he turned back to the stove and turned it off. He drained the pasta over the sink and then covered it lightly with oil, tossing it to make it evenly coated. John scooped half the pasta onto Sherlock's plate and half onto his; then grabbed the saucepan and poured the contents over both of their meals. Then they both sat down to a nice dinner. Sherlock tentatively tried the pasta while John sipped his wine.

"Delicious," they commented at the same time, smiling at each other as they spoke.

John tucked into the meal and asked, "So how did you know to get chardonnay? Did my shirt sleeves tell you?"

Sherlock shook his head. "No; pasta dishes are among the easiest to make and require simple ingredients, plus nine times out of ten I'll eat pasta which is much better than many other foods you've tried to make for me. But I knew it would be pasta pancetta because you fell asleep watching a cooking program four nights ago that was making that. I must say, I approve," Sherlock answered easily, spinning pasta onto his fork.

"I'm glad you do," John responded easily, not the least bit surprised at Sherlock's deductions. He slid his hand across the table and Sherlock covered it with his; and they finished their meal in a comfortable silence. When it was done, John got up to do the dishes, but Sherlock was already clearing away their plates. Sherlock shooed John away, so John poured himself some more wine and said, "Have I told you you're amazing?"

Sherlock started to run the hot water and he smiled. "You could stand to mention it more," the taller man commented dryly. John laughed and came up behind Sherlock, slipping a hand around his body and sliding it into his pocket. Sherlock leaned back slightly onto John and John nuzzled his back, breathing in his strange scent (peppermint, laundry detergent, soap, the slight haze of gunpowder). Sherlock very quickly finished up the dishes before turning and kissing his doctor affectionately. John hummed and leaned into the kiss, adding a bit more pressure between them. Sherlock was the one who reluctantly pulled away.

_I have plans_, he seemed to say, his hand giving John's arse a firm squeeze before pulling away, _but they're for later._

John nodded, taking Sherlock's hand and leading him over to the living room. Sherlock rested his head in John's lap and John gently massaged his temples as they watched some crap telly, giving both of them time to digest. Sherlock wanted to relax with John first before they moved on to his real plans for the evening. He knew that the doctor wouldn't say no to them, but of course the detective would ask. And John would be justly rewarded for letting Sherlock do what he wanted.

After the telly program ended, Sherlock sat up and moved to straddle John's lap. John smiled before Sherlock kissed him passionately. John opened his mouth, and Sherlock's tongue slid in and started to explore, pressing to the roof of his mouth, tracing the inside of his cheeks, ghosting over his teeth, entwining with John's own tongue. Their everything seemed to be wrapped around each other as Sherlock lowered himself, grinding against John's lap. John threw his head back with a groan, quickly leaning in to kiss and bite and lick Sherlock's neck, which elicited these fantastic little groans and sighs from the taller man. John kissed his way down to where Sherlock's throat attached to his torso and it took him a moment before he found the spot which completely ruined Sherlock in the best way. As John kissed and sucked, Sherlock threw his head back, biting down hard on his lip, his hands curling in John's hair and tugging. John moaned against his neck and the vibrations feel so incredibly illegal and so incredibly brilliant.

John's hand glided up Sherlock's torso to start undoing buttons slowly, stroking each inch of newly exposed flesh. Sherlock's own hands wandered to tug at John's jumper, but John didn't pull away from Sherlock until his chest was completely uncovered. When he was done, Sherlock quickly tugged the jumper off of John, but stilled the doctor with a hand on his chest. "Will you let me eat dessert?" Sherlock asked, resting his forehead against John's, "Off of you? I want to taste the sweet against the salt of your skin."

John's eyes widened and his lips parted at the idea. "Yes, please. What do you want to eat?"

"I'll get it and meet you in my bedroom," Sherlock told, getting up off of the couch. John got up slowly, leaning in to kiss Sherlock gently before padding towards the bedroom they had been sharing for a few months. Sherlock went into the kitchen and grabbed a jar from the cupboard before shedding his trousers and pants. He went into his room to find John similarly disrobed and lying on his silver sheets in wait. John opened his arms and Sherlock stepped closer, allowing John to pull him down to the bed while he still slyly hid the label on the jar. They kissed more—_mmmh yes, please_—and John reached down to lightly stroke Sherlock's length. Sherlock groaned, moving his head to John's shoulder and resting there for a moment. He reluctantly pulled away, but quickly straddled John once more, rubbing their bare erections together, making both men moan. John shifted his hips, making them rub together again and it felt so goddamn good—but no, no, this was not what Sherlock wanted to try.

"John," Sherlock murmured. "John, I'm hungry."

John stilled his hips, knowing what Sherlock was insinuating. John's hands found Sherlock's hips as he asked, "So what are you going to eat?" Sherlock lifted the jar and smiled. John smiled back. "Nutella? You want to eat nutella off of me?"

"It's my favorite," Sherlock admits, unscrewing the jar and dipping his finger inside.

"You should have told me; I would buy it for you every week," John said, his thumbs rubbing circles on Sherlock's hips. But he suddenly stopped talking as Sherlock used his finger to scoop out the chocolate spread and deposited it onto John's chest, just below the line his pectorals made. John was still fit; having not really given up army training and running everywhere with Sherlock helped him to keep his defined shape, though you could never tell underneath his jumpers. The feeling of Sherlock slowly and methodically spreading the nutella over his chest was absolutely erotic and exciting. Sherlock was scooping up more out of the jar, making a pattern—were those spirals?—down John's chest. John was watching him with curiosity; after all, they had never done this sort of thing before and Sherlock so rarely ate, John was amused by the fact that he loved nutella. Sherlock finished spreading it, and he lazily lifted his finger to his mouth to suck it clean. John's eyes went wide as he watched in fascination. Sherlock's eyes had closed and his cheeks had hollowed out and God, please let this night end with Sherlock sucking John off like that.

Sherlock's eyes popped open as he withdrew the finger, smirking. He knew exactly what he had done to John, what thoughts were flicking through his head. Sherlock leaned up to kiss John, some of the nutella lingering on his lips. John relaxed at that, so Sherlock pulled away slowly before kissing and nipping his way down John's neck, past his collarbones and nipples, before he was at the nutella. Sherlock paused, breathing in the scent of the food and John's skin and sweat and arousal. It was heavenly, to say in the least. Sherlock stretched his tongue out and forcefully licked off the first bit of nutella. Now he could taste John and coco and hazelnut and it all be damned if he didn't die right then and there.

John's eyes closed as he concentrated on the sensation of being licked clean by Sherlock. He jumped slightly in surprise as Sherlock hummed against his skin, wondering what Sherlock could possibly be tasting, and what would it be like to be doing this to him? John's hand reached up from the bed—_when had it fallen there?_—and dipped a finger into one of the spirals Sherlock had patterned. Sherlock's hand snatched John's wrist, holding it in place. He lifted his head from John's chest and stared the doctor in the eyes. "No," he said forcefully, the blue eyes piercing. "That is mine."

Sherlock sat up and brought John's finger into his mouth, possessively sucking off the stolen nutella. Sherlock narrowed his eyes, mentally warning John not to try and steal any more. John got the message, but didn't know if he would abide by it. After all, Sherlock was turning him into a ball of sexual desire from simply sucking his finger; the doctor was slightly worried at what the night would progress to. The detective changed the angle of his head, sucked a little harder, and damned if that didn't feel better than it had been just two seconds ago. John moaned out as Sherlock finished with his finger and put it back on the bed.

Sherlock lowered his head back to John's chest and kissed it lazily as he inhaled again. Mmm, the delicious smell, the fantastic taste…he needed more. He quickly applied his tongue back onto the nutella. He was becoming increasingly addicted to this; his favorite food mixed with his favorite person. It was bordering on the divine, made Sherlock think of soft white and the way he sometimes got his violin to sound so beautiful it made his stomach curl.

"Sherlock," John panted as he watched the detective work. Sherlock's nose was pressed to John's abdomen as his tongue danced on his skin and the sight was so erotic that it just made his erection strain more, entirely more sensitive to Sherlock's chest as the man made his way down John's body, following the trail of nutella. John needed to relieve some tension; he raised his arms to grab Sherlock, any part of him, but Sherlock grabbed his wrists again, this time not looking up from his work. "Please, Sherlock," John begged, "I need to touch you." And so Sherlock placed John's hands on his head, allowing the doctor to tug at the thick black curls.

Sherlock hummed against John's skin again and it made gooseflesh ripple across John. "Almost done," the taller man assured, but John just groaned.

"No—yes—I mean, that's good and bad," John finally choked out.

Sherlock smiled against John's lower stomach. It appeared that he and John had just found a better way to get Sherlock to eat; and neither of them had a problem with it. Sherlock went slow on the last spiral of nutella, making John shift and slide beneath him. Sherlock sucked lightly at John's skin as he finished the food, but not the movements. He slid lower and lower until he finally reached John's prick, shiny with precum. Sherlock didn't even touch it before he engulfed it with his mouth, sending a spasm up John's body.

"Jesus, Sherlock," he breathed out and Sherlock hummed thoughtfully.

_Not quite._

John moaned, the detective's hum having vibrated around him. Sherlock started to move his head up and down slowly, his tongue pressing against John's prick in his mouth. He took in a deep lungful of air and then took John all the way into his mouth. John could feel Sherlock's throat around him and it just felt _so fucking good_ and now Sherlock was rubbing his thigh as he pulled away. John tugged on Sherlock's curls again and if Sherlock's mouth hadn't been otherwise occupied he would have smiled.

Sherlock started to speed up; his head bobbing up and down steadily as his fingers gently massaged John's inner thighs. John lifted his head to watch—this was one of his favorite sights and he wasn't going to miss a second of it. Sherlock sucked hard, which made John hiss then groan then pant. One of Sherlock's hands drifted up to massage John's balls and John swore violently before starting to spew out a litany of deities and Sherlock's name. Sherlock increased the pace again; John's fingers spasmed and John begged for Sherlock to take him over the edge. So Sherlock pressed two fingers to John's entrance, helping his doctor along. When John felt the pressure, he shouted out his partner's name and came, long and hard down Sherlock's throat.

And Sherlock swallowed every last drop of it. John was panting hard as he came down from his high. He paused for a few moments before he grabbed Sherlock and pulled him back up to his lips, pressing hard against _that mouth_ which was just too good at everything it attempted. John groaned against that mouth, reaching down to wrap a hand around Sherlock's erection. The doctor broke the kiss and pressed his forehead to Sherlock's, panting heavily as he worked his hand over Sherlock's prick. Sherlock thrusted into his hand, needing John almost more than he ever had before.

_Can I?_

John reached over to the bedside table, opened the drawer and pulled out the lube. They had discarded condoms months ago when they both got tested and were given clean bills of health—they didn't need to be careful for future partners because there wouldn't be any future partners. Sherlock held out his hand and John squeezed the lube into it, the doctor's spare hand tracing patterns on his chest. Sherlock hastily slicked his prick and then placed his lube-soaked fingers at John's entrance. John's legs fell open, creating more space for the two of them, and John smiled and nodded. Sherlock pushed a finger in, moving it in and out fairly quickly. John squirmed down onto the finger, groaning out again.

"More, Sherlock, please," he panted, knowing that the detective loved when he begged. Sherlock obligingly inserted another finger, scissoring a few times before crooking his fingers and finding John's prostate. John groaned, demanding "More," and so Sherlock slid in another finger, brushing the prostate again. And again and again and again so that John was pleading for all of it. So Sherlock removed his fingers and quickly replaced them with his prick, sliding in slowly. Sherlock groaned loudly at the sensation of being completely encased in John, completely taking him over. He started to thrust, and John's hand found his and squeezed tight, both of them needing something solid to hold on to. Sherlock angled his hips, his next thrust snapping into John's prostate. John shouted out at the sensation, closing his eyes and Sherlock smiled. He could make his doctor come undone in every way possible. Sherlock picked up the pace, breathing hard and absolutely desperate for release after the night they've had. John moved his hips in time with Sherlock, making everything faster and harder and _so much better_ until Sherlock half-groaned and half-shouted John's name as he came deep inside his doctor.

Sherlock had to take a few moments to recover, but when his consciousness felt like coming back to him, he discovered that John was slowly and methodically rubbing Sherlock's head, which almost made his consciousness abandon him again. Slowly, Sherlock pulled out and then settled himself half on top of John and half on the bed. John continued the scalp massage, absently humming the piece that Sherlock had composed for him.

"Hmm, no, lower," Sherlock corrected as John hummed.

"What? Oh, sorry," John answered, moving his fingers lower over Sherlock's head.

"No, I didn't mean the massage, but that does feel fantastic, so do continue. I mean the humming. You were humming your song, but one of the notes was off," Sherlock replied. He hummed the correct snatch of music for John, then continued humming until the piece was done. The silence stretched between them for a few moments before John's hands stilled.

"So," John started, rubbing a foot against Sherlock's leg. "Can we please get you to eat like that more?"

"Whatever you say, Doctor Watson. You know what's best for my health," Sherlock drawled, turning his head so that he could face John's neck.

"Of course I do," John agreed, allowing the silence to stretch between them again. The room was filled with the quiet sounds of their breaths becoming steadier as their bodies calmed down. Sherlock was tapping out some composition on John's chest as John gently ran his fingers through Sherlock's hair. The room was rather warm now from their activities, but neither man wanted to get up to open a window. No, they were both content to lay here with one another. "Hey Sherlock?" John asked.

"Hm?"

"Happy monaversary."

"Happy monaverary, John," Sherlock answered, lifting his head to catch John's lips with him. John's tongue slipped into his mouth and Sherlock's greeted it rather warmly before Sherlock sucked rather possessively on it. John inhaled with surprise, the sensation reminding him of Sherlock's lips wrapped around him in a rather different place. Sherlock broke the kiss, knowing exactly what John was thinking, and smirked at the doctor.

"God, Sherlock," John muttered.

Sherlock laid his head on John's shoulder and nuzzled his neck before he responded, "Not quite."


End file.
